


Stalker

by Severina



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Community: muse_talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-11
Updated: 2008-10-11
Packaged: 2017-10-10 11:43:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Justin gets his very own stalker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stalker

**Author's Note:**

> Post Season Five.  
> Written for LJ's Muse_Talking community (1st Person Justin Taylor)  
> Prompt: Shadow

Ethan spots me in the grocery store. Coincidentally, I'm looking over the cheese balls.

"Hey!" he says. His smile is toothier than I remember, his hair longer and more unruly. The goatee has thankfully been removed. The overall result is less bohemian artiste, more emo pop star. He looks sincerely happy to see me, which is worrying in and of itself. I don't think Ethan would know sincere if it bit him in the ass.

I plaster my lips together in a vague imitation of a smile. "Hey," I say back.

He tucks his basket in beside mine against the produce table and faces me, effectively blocking me in between him and the cheese display and ruining my hastily conceived plan, which was basically to take up my basket and run for the exit. "Small world!" he says.

"Apparently," I say dryly.

"This is my favourite market," he says. His voice is as oily as I remember it. "I'm here all the time."

I wish I'd gone to the market on 34th Street. That one has cramped aisles and a limited wine selection but the added bonus of no ex-boyfriends. I make a mental note to shop there from now on.

"So," he continues, "don't tell me you're actually living in New York."

What, like I don't have the talent to make it in New York? Like I couldn't survive in the city? Like he's better than me? I realize I'm projecting and take a deep breath.

"For two years now," I say politely. Country club training comes in handy. But I don't intend to fill him in any further about my life and I have no interest in his. I start sending psychic _Go Away_ messages and turn my attention back to the cheese.

He doesn't take the hint. Instead, he pokes around in my basket while I fume and try to stop myself from slapping at his hand. "Hmmm," he says. "Wine, fruit, bread. And now cheese." He raises a brow. "Having a party?"

If I was, he'd be the last one I'd invite. Right after George W. Bush and Britney Spears.

"No," I say shortly. "Just Brian."

"Ahh. So you _did_ get back together with him," Ethan says.

Clearly. Ethan always was one to point out the obvious.

"Well," he sighs, "I guess you know what's best--"

"Yes," I snip out. In my minds eye I see rose petals flying, a cheap ring left behind on a battered thrift store table. "I do."

He looks like he's going to say more, but he finally shuts his mouth. "Well," he says, lifting up his basket, "it was nice seeing you, Justin. I hope everything is going great for you."

I wait until he's walking down the aisle before I pick up my own loaded basket. Then I make my way hurriedly to the checkout and pay, hoping he doesn't manage to catch up with me again in the line.

When I get home, Brian tackles me at the door and kisses me like I've been gone for three years instead of three hours. He has the strongest libido of any man I've ever known; it's a good thing mine matches it. He presses me against the door, covers me with his body; slides my jeans down and eases inside me and nips at the shell of my ear. "Welcome home, Sunshine," he says.

I laugh and push back against him. Lose myself in him.

An hour later, he helps me unload the groceries on the kitchen counter. He digs through the second bag, then turns to me. "Where's the fucking cheese?"

I forgot.

"Great," I mutter.

* * *

The park is my favourite place to draw. It's just a tiny little green space two blocks from our brownstone, but the trees block the sound of the traffic and the kids stay over on the jungle gym and basically leave me alone. It's where I come to be alone, and to work on things that aren't on commission and aren't part of _Rage_ and aren't meant for some upcoming not-yet-booked show. This is where I just create for the sake of creating, where I piece together the bare bones of what may eventually become a favourite painting or a gift for Brian or Lindsay.

It's quiet and peaceful and--

"I don't believe this," he says.

I wince down at my paper and consider pretending that I didn't hear him. Then he flops down on the bench beside me and I know that option has been taken away. The bastard. I sigh.

"Ethan," I say.

"I was just taking a short cut to my place," he says, gesturing to the group of buildings on the next block. Brian and I had checked them out when we were looking for a place that suited both my budget and his sense of style. They're hideous. I feel a burst of pleasure knowing that Ethan is living in that linoleum and particle board hell, quickly followed by a surge of horror at the thought that he's living mere blocks from my home.

"You must just be taking a quick break between stops," I say quickly. "I mean, on your tour."

Oh please let there be a tour. Let there be recording sessions in Los Angeles and guest appearances with the Berlin Philharmonic. Let him go far far away from my local market and my favourite park and my _life_.

"Actually, I'm between engagements at the moment. Oh, things are going very well," he hastens to assure me, like I give a fuck. "My agent just thinks it's important not to over-saturate the market." He laughs self-deprecatingly. "Even _I_ get sick of seeing my face plastered on every billboard and bus within a fifty block radius."

I haven't seen a single Ethan Gold CD or concert advertisement. Ever. Not even when I lived with the fucker, if you don't count the CD's he hand burned and gave out at his free shows. I have seen dozens of the new Drew Boyd posters that Brian conceived for Drew's return as 'the face' of Brown Athletics, but I just smile smugly to myself and refrain from mentioning that little fact to Ethan.

Ethan gestures down at the sketchpad open at my lap. "I see you're still drawing," he says.

I blink. What else would I be doing?

"Of course," I say.

"That's nice," he says. "Of course, it's such a difficult market to break in to. But still," he sighs, "maybe someday you'll get that fabulous house that we dreamed about. Remember that?"

"If I do," I say cheekily, "I think I'll name it Britin."

Ethan looks at me strangely. "Brighton?"

"Yeah."

"Okay," he says, shaking his head. "You know, you always were a little strange, Justin."

"Yeah," I say, rising and stuffing my sketchbook and pencils into my bag. "Bye, Ethan."

"See you around," he calls to my retreating back.

I have to bite my lip to keep myself from answering. Not if I see you first. So childish. But really… not if I see you first, Ethan.

* * *

The opening is on a Thursday. I walk among the visitors, wine glass in hand, giving the appropriate sound bites to the critics. It's my fourth show and it's horribly blasé to say that I'm getting used to it, but I am. There is a routine, I've discovered, to every opening -- the flurry of action before the doors open, making sure that everything is just right; the smooth movements of the caterers as they set up, like a choreographed dance; the ritual unlocking of the doors when the clock strikes seven (and of course, no one is out front); the trickle of customers and critics that gradually becomes a flood; the murmur of polite conversation. It's sort of become old hat.

Everything but the painting. That always stays fresh and exciting.

Brian arrives shortly after eight, just off the plane from Pittsburgh. He wraps his arms around me from behind and tugs me back against his body. I can feel the cool autumn air still rising from his body and his cock pressing insistently into the small of my back. He kisses the side of my neck.

"Where's the nearest closet?" he murmurs.

I laugh. This has become part of the routine, too. At my first opening, I was so nervous that I was dry heaving into a trash can just before the doors opened. My reaction surprised me, but I think it surprised Brian more. When I nearly spilled wine on the art critic from _The Times_, Brian calmly took my hand and led me to the janitors closet. A mid-show fuck was just the thing to calm me down.

"You know," I tell him, "I don't get nervous anymore."

"Maybe not, but it's been three weeks," Brian says. He releases me and spins me around to pull me into his arms, instead. "I need to fuck you, now," he adds, punctuating the final word with a half-hearted slap at my ass.

I've already scoped out a closet. Brian always has the best ideas.

When we emerge fifteen minutes later, the gallery has gotten significantly more crowded. I make the rounds of my own works, and note that three of my paintings have been sold, while Brian wanders off to check out the offerings from the other artists.

I snag another glass of wine. And that's when I see him. Not again. I try to duck behind a pillar but he spots me as well, and waves. I gulp my wine and morph my attempted dodge into a casual 'just leaning against the pillar' move. Smooth.

"Ethan," I say uncomfortably as he approaches me.

"Hi," he says warmly. He raises his own glass. "Congratulations. I had no idea you were part of this exhibition."

I raise my eyebrow and look pointedly at the large sign hanging over the entrance, where my name is prominently displayed.

Ethan follows my gaze and laughs. "Didn't even notice," he says. He's a good liar. But then, he always was. "I'm here for Gunther Morley's modern sculpture. Those pieces… they move me, you know?"

I try to keep my face blank. It's not for me to judge someone else's taste in art, even if I feel that each and every one of Morley's pieces looks like a rutabaga with feet.

"Well," I say, pushing off from the column, "I should make the rounds and--" I stop when strong arms wrap around me from behind.

"Ian," Brian says cheerily.

I poke him in the ribs, but can't stop myself from grinning. "It's Ethan," I say.

"Whatever," Brian says. He releases me to step to my side. "Fancy seeing you here. I'd have thought you'd be off destroying someone's hearing or cheating on your boyfriend."

"Brian," I warn.

"It's okay, Justin," Ethan says. "I'm genuinely surprised to see you here, Brian. Last time I checked, art galleries didn't have back rooms."

"Actually," Brian says smoothly, "we use a closet."

"Classy as always," Ethan snips out.

"Okay," I begin, "this isn't the place--"

"There you are!" Abigail McCormick hustles her way between us, completely oblivious to the little war of words and to the antagonistic stance of the two of them. She's a heavyset, folksy woman that you could easier imagine baking bread and holding a quilting bee than overseeing one of the most exclusive galleries in the city. She can also swear like a trucker when a delivery is late. A woman of contradictions is Abigail.

"I've been looking for you," she begins, then stops when she sees Ethan standing among us. "Oh," she says to me happily, "I see you found your friend."

Ethan freezes. Deer in the headlights frozen.

"Found?" I ask Abigail icily, never taking my eyes off Ethan and his fuzzy emo hair and his stupid plucked eyebrows.

"This young man has been looking for you for days," Abigail tells me. "He just missed you the other day, but I told him that you'd planned to stop at that market on 32nd on your way home. Why, he practically ran out the door trying to catch up."

I narrow my eyes. "Really."

"Well, I'm glad you two boys finally got together," she says. "It's so nice when someone from home comes all this way to see you. Someone besides your Brian, of course," she says, reaching up to pat Brian affectionately on the cheek.

"Nice," I say.

"Justin," she says, taking my arm, "I don't mean to interrupt your reunion with your friend, but there's a couple of buyers that would like a word."

"I'll be right there," I assure her. Right after I rip out Ethan's vocal chords and tie them into a bow under his neck.

She shuffles off, and I cross my arms and regard Ethan coolly.

"Justin," he begins, "I can explain."

I don't want to hear it. "Get out."

"I've been thinking about you--"

"You're a freak," I tell him frankly. "And if you don't leave right now, _and_ never come near me, or Brian, or any member of my family or friends again, I'll have to find that critic from _The Times_ and tell him that _that painting_," I point randomly at one of my large scale works, "was inspired by my ex-boyfriend, the _famous_ Ethan Gold."

Ethan shakes his head, but I can see the fear in his eyes. He's still living the lie. "You wouldn't," he says.

Does he know me at all?

"Try me."

He leans over to place his drink on the ledge of one of the sculptures he'd proposed to adore so much, trying desperately to retain a shred of his dignity. "You're not the man I thought you were," he finally sniffs out.

"You've got that right," I say. "Get out."

He slinks away without a backward glance.

"Well," Brian says after a moment, watching Ethan fade into the crowd, "that was… weird."

I agree. "It was like he was--"

"Your stalker?" Brian finishes. "Hmm. A little annoying, isn't it? Never knowing where he's going to turn up, which one of your tricks he's going to scare away…"

Yeah, yeah. I smile up at him. "I was a much cuter stalker."

"Danny DeVito would be a much cuter stalker," Brian points out.

Ethan was never exactly a prize in the looks department, I'll give Brian that. Or in the bedroom, but I always make sure to steer clear of that topic.

"I don't get it, though," I continue. "_Why_ was he stalking me?"

"Maybe he was trying to win you back," Brian offers.

I'm dubious. "By shadowing my every move and patronizing me?"

Brian shrugs. "Isn't that what he did before?"

I consider, thinking back to those days. I don't let myself remember them very often. If I had to lose a memory, couldn't it be of those six months of folly instead of the most romantic night of my life?

But honestly, I guess he did. Fuck, the way he spoke of me to his friends. To his agent. Generally speaking, Ethan was a giant ass.

"Yeah," I say. "That, and telling me he wanted to stroke me with his bow."

Brian nearly chokes on his wine. "You fell for that?" he sputters.

"Shut up," I tell him, grinning. "I was young and stupid."

"Yes," Brian agrees. He ditches the wine on the tray of a passing waiter and wraps his arms around me again. "'My prince' is a much better line," he says.

I nod, realizing I've only forgotten the second most romantic night of my life. I can live with that.


End file.
